The Golden Calf by M. E. Braddon

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It seemed strange to be driven swiftly past the familiar carriage-drive,
and round into the lane leading to Miss Wendover's cottage. It was only
an accommodation lane--or a back-out lane, as the boys called it, since
no two carriages could pass each other in that narrow channel--and in bad
weather the approach to the Homestead was far from agreeable. A carriage
and horses had been known to stick there, with wheels hopelessly embedded
in the clay, while Miss Wendover's guests picked their footsteps through
the mud.

But the Homestead, when attained, was such a delightful house that one
forgot all impediments in the way thither. The red brick front--old red
brick, be it noted, which has a brightness and purity of colour never
retained for above a twelvemonth by the red brick of to-day--glowing,
athwart its surrounding greenery, like the warm welcome of a friend; the
exquisite neatness of the garden, where every flower that could be coaxed
into growing in the open air bloomed in perfection; the spick-and-span
brightness of the windows; the elegant order that prevailed within, from
cellar to garret; the old, carefully-chosen furniture, which had for the
most part been collected from other old-world homesteads; the artistic
colouring of draperies and carpets--all combined to make Miss Wendover's
house delightful.

'My house had need be orderly,' she said, when her friends waxed
rapturous; 'I have so little else to think about.'

Yet the sick and poor, within a radius of ten miles, might have testified
that Miss Wendover had thought and care for all who needed them, and that
she devoted the larger half of her life to other people's interests.

It was a clear, balmy day, one of those lovely autumn days which hang
upon the edge of winter, and Miss Wendover was pacing her garden walks
bare-headed, armed with gardening scissors and formidable brown leather
gauntlets, nipping a leaf here, or a withered rosebud there, with eyes
whose eagle glance not so much as an aphis could escape. From the slope
of her lawn Aunt Betsy saw the cobs turn into the lane, and she was
standing at the gate to welcome the traveller when the carriage drew up.

There was no carriage-drive on this side of the house, only a lawn with a
world of flower-beds. Those visitors who wanted to enter in a ceremonious
manner had to drive round by shrubbery and orchard to the back, where
there were an old oak door and an entrance-hall. On this garden front
there were only glass doors and long French windows, verandahs, and sunny
parlours, opening one out of another.

'How do you do, my dear?' said the spinster heartily, as Ida alighted; 'I
am very glad to see you. Why, how bright and blooming you look--not a bit
like a sea-sick traveller.'

'Dear Miss Wendover, I ought to look bright when I am so glad to come to
you; and, as to the other thing, I am never sea-sick.'

'What a splendid girl! That unhappy little Bessie can't cross to the
Wight without being a martyr. But, Ida, I am not going to be called Miss
Wendover. Only bishops and county magnates, and people of that kind, call
me by that name. To you I am to be Aunt Betsy, as I am to the children at
The Knoll.'

'Is not that putting me too much on a level--'

'With my own flesh and blood? Nonsense! I mean you to be as my own flesh
and blood. I could not bear to have anyone about me who was not.'

'You are too good,' faltered Ida. 'How can I ever repay you?'

'You have only to be happy. It is your nature to be frank and truthful,
so I will say nothing about that.'

Ida blushed deepest scarlet. Frank and truthful--she--whose very name was
a lie! And yet there could be no wrong done to Miss Wendover, she told
herself, by her suppression of the truth. It was a suppression that
concerned only Brian Walford and herself. No one else could have any
interest in the matter.

Betsy Wendover herself led the way to the bed-chamber that had been
prepared for the new inmate. It was a dear old room, not spacious, but
provided with two most capacious closets, in each of which a small gang
of burglars could have hidden--dear old closets, with odd little corner
cupboards inside them, and a most elaborate system of shelves. One closet
had a little swing window at the top for ventilation, and this, Miss
Wendover told Ida, was generally taken for a haunted corner, as the
ventilating window gave utterance to unearthly noises in the dead watches
of the night, and sometimes gave entrance to a stray cat from adjacent
tiles. A cat less agile than the rest of his species had been known to
entangle himself in the little swing window, and to hang there all the
night, sending forth unearthly caterwaulings, to the unspeakable terror
of Miss Wendover's guest, unfamiliar with the mechanism of the room, and
wondering what breed of Hampshire demon or afrit was thus making night
hideous.

There was a painted wooden dado halfway up the wall, and a florid rose
and butterfly paper above it. There was a neat little brass bedstead
on one side of the room, a tall Chippendale chest of drawers, with
writing-table and pigeon-holes on the other side; the dearest, oldest
dressing-table and shield-shaped glass in front of the broad latticed
window; while in another window there was a cushioned seat, such as
Mariana of the Moated Grange sat upon when she looked across the fens and
bewailed her dead-and-gone joys. There were old cups and saucers on the
high, narrow chimney-piece, below which a cosy fire burned in a little
old basket grate. Altogether the room was the picture of homely comfort.

'Oh, what a lovely room!' cried Ida, inwardly contrasting this cheery
chamber with that white-washed den at Lea Fontaines, with its tawdry
mahogany and brass fittings, its florid six feet of carpet on a deal
floor stained brown, its alabaster clock and tin candelabra--a cheap
caricature of Parisian elegance.

'I'm glad you like it, my dear, 'answered Miss Wendover. 'Bessie said it
would suit you; and all I ask you is to keep it tidy. I hope I am not a
tyrant; but I am an old maid. Of course, I shall never pry into your
room; but I warn you that I have an eye which takes in everything at a
flash; and if I happen to go past when your door is open, and see a
bonnet and shawl on your bed, or a gown sprawling on your sofa, my teeth
will be set on edge for the next half-hour.'

'Dear Miss Wen--, dear Aunt Betsy,' said Ida, corrected by a frown, 'I
hope you will come into my room every day, and give me a good scolding if
it is not exactly as you like. Everything in this house looks lovely. I
want to learn your nice neat ways.'

'Well, my love, you might learn something worse,' replied Miss Wendover,
with innocent pride. 'And now come down to luncheon; I kept it back on
purpose for you, and I am sure you must be starving.'

The luncheon was excellent, served with a tranquil perfection only to be
attained by careful training; and yet Miss Wendover's youthful butler
three years ago had been a bird boy; while her rosy-cheeked parlour-maid
was only eighteen, and had escaped but two years from the primitive
habits of cottage life. Aunt Betsy had a genius for training young
servants.

'You had better unpack your boxes directly after luncheon, said Miss
Wendover, when Ida had eaten with very good appetite, 'and arrange your
things in your drawers. That will take you an hour or so, I suppose--say
till five o'clock, when Bessie is coming over to afternoon tea.'

'Oh, I am so glad! I am longing to see Bessie. Is she as lovable and
pretty as ever?'

'Well, yes,' replied Aunt Betsy, with a critical air; 'I think she has
rather improved. She is plump enough still, in all conscience, but not
quite so stumpy as she was last summer. Her figure is a little less like
a barrel.'

'I hope she was very much admired at Bournemouth.'

'Yes, strange to say, she had a good many admirers,' answered Miss
Wendover coolly. 'She made a point of never being enthusiastic about her
relations. She had always partners at the dances, I am told, even when
there was a paucity of dancing men; and she was considered rather
remarkable at lawn tennis. No doubt she will tell you all about it this
afternoon. I have some work to do in the village, and I shall leave you
two girls together.'

This was a delicacy which touched Ida. She was very anxious to see
Bessie, and to talk to her as they could only talk when they were alone.
She wanted to know her faithful friend's motive for that cruel deception
about Brian Walford. That the frank, tender-hearted Bessie could have so
deceived her from any unworthy motive was impossible.

Five o'clock struck, and Ida was sitting alone in the drawing-room,
waiting to receive her friend, just as if she were the daughter of the
house, instead of a salaried dependent. The pretty carved Indian
tea-table--a gem in Bombay blackwood--was wheeled in front of the
fire-place, which was old, as regarded the high wooden mantel-piece and
capacious breadth of the hearth, but essentially new in its glittering
tiles and dainty brass fire-irons.

The clock had hardly finished striking when Bessie bounced into the room,
rosy and smiling, in sealskin jacket and toque.

'Oh, you darling! isn't this lovely?' she exclaimed, hugging Ida. 'You
are to live here for ever and ever, and never, never, never to leave us
again, and never to marry, unless you marry one of the Brians. Don't
shudder like that, pet, they are both nice! And I'm sure you like Brian
Walford, though, perhaps, not quite so much as he liked you. You do like
him now, don't you, darling?' urged Bess.

Ida had withdrawn from her embrace, and was seated before the low Bombay
table, occupied with the tea pot. There was no light but the fire and one
shaded lamp on a distant table. The curtains were not yet drawn, and
white mists were rising in the garden outside, like a sea.

'Bessie,' Ida began, gravely, as her old schoolfellow sat on a low stool
in front of the fire, 'how could you deceive me like that? What could put
such a thing in your head--_you_, so frank, so open?'

'I am sure I hardly know,' answered Bess, innocently. 'It was my
birthday, don't you know, and we were all wild. Perhaps the champagne had
something to do with it, though I didn't take any. But that sort of
excitement communicates itself; and running up and down hill gets into
one's head. We all thought it would be such fun to pass off penniless B.
W. for his wealthy cousin--and just to see how you liked him, with that
extra advantage. But there was no harm in it, was there, dear? Of course,
he told you afterwards, when you saw him at Mauleverer?

'Yes, he told me--afterwards.'

'Naturally; and having begun to like him as the rich Brian, you didn't
leave off liking him because of his poverty--did you, darling? The man
himself was the same.'

Ida was silent, remembering how, with the revelation of the fraud that
had been practised upon her, the very man himself had seemed to undergo a
transformation--as if a disguise, altering his every characteristic, had
been suddenly flung aside.

She did not answer Bessie's question, but, looking down at her with
grave, searching eyes, she said,--'Dear Bessie, it was a very foolish
jest. I know it is not in your nature to mean unkindly to anyone, least
of all to me, to whom you have been an angel of light; but all practical
jokes of that kind are liable to inflict pain and humiliation upon the
victim--however innocently meant. Whose idea was it, Bess? Not yours, I
think?'

'No; it was Urania who proposed it. She said it would be such fun.'

'Miss Rylance is not usually so--funny.'

'No; but she was particularly jolly that day, don't you remember? in
positively boisterous spirits--for her.'

'And the outcome of her amiability was this suggestion?'

'Yes, darling. She had noticed that you had a kind of romantic fancy
about Brian of the Abbey--that you had idealised his image, as it
were--and set him up as a kind of demi-god. Not because of his wealth,
darling--don't suppose that we supposed that--but on account of that dear
old Abbey and its romantic associations, which gave a charm to the owner.
And so she said what fun it would be to pass off Brian Walford as his
cousin, and see if you fell in love with him. 'I know she is ready to lay
her heart at the feet of the owner of the Abbey,' Urania said; and I
thought it would be too delicious if you were to fall in love with Brian
Walford, who could not help falling in love with you, for of course it
would end in your marrying him, and his getting on splendidly at the Bar;
for, with his talents, he must do well. He only wants a motive for
industry. And then you would be our very own cousin! I hope it wasn't a
very wicked idea, Ida, and that you will find it in your heart to forgive
me,' pleaded Bess, kneeling by her friend's chair, with clasped bands
upon Ida's knees, and sweet, half-tearful face looking up, 'My darling, I
have never been angry with you,' answered Ida, clasping the girl to her
heart, with a stifled sob. 'But I don't think Miss Rylance meant so
kindly. Her idea sprang from a malevolent heart. She wanted to humiliate
me--to drag my most sordid characteristics into the light of day--to make
me more abject than poverty had made me already. That was the motive of
her joke.'

'Never mind her motive, dear. All I am interested in is your opinion of
Brian. I hope he behaved nicely at Mauleverer.'

'Very nicely.'

'Cobb says that Fräulein positively raves about him--declares he is quite
the most gentlemanly young man she ever saw--a godly young man she called
him, in her funny English. And, she says, that he was madly in love with
you. Of course he made you an offer?'

'How could he do that when I was always with the Fräulein?'

'Oh, nonsense. Brian is not the kind of young man to be kept at bay by a
mild nonentity like the Fräulein. He told me before he left that he was
desperately in love with you, and that he meant to win you for his wife.
I asked him how he intended to keep a wife, and he said he should write
for the magazines, and do theatrical criticisms for the newspapers, till
briefs began to drop in. He was determined to win you if you were to be
won. So I feel sure that he made you an offer, unless, indeed, that
horrid old Pew spoiled all by her venomous conduct.'

'That is it, dear. Miss Pew brought matters to an abrupt close.'

'And you are not engaged to Brian?' said Bess, dolefully.

'No.'

'And he didn't follow you to Dieppe?'

'No.'

'Then he is not half so fine a fellow as I thought him.'

'Suppose, Bessie, that after a little mild flirtation, with Fräulein Wolf
for an audience, we both discovered that our liking for each other was of
the very coolest order, and that it was wiser to let the acquaintance
end?'

'You might feel that; but I would never believe it of Brian. Why, he
raved about you; he was passionately in love. He told me there was no
sacrifice he would not make to call you his wife.'

'He had so much to sacrifice,' said Ida, with a cynical air.

'Don't be unkind, Ida. Of course I know that he has his fortune to make;
but he is so thoroughly nice--so full of fun.'

'Did you ever know him do anything good or great, anything worth being
remembered--anything that proved the depth and nobility of his nature?'
asked Ida, earnestly.

'Good gracious! no, not that I can remember. He is always nice, and
amusing. He doesn't like carrying a basket, or skates, and things; but of
course, where there are younger boys one couldn't expect him to do that;
and he hates plain girls and old women; but I suppose that is natural,
for even father does it, in his secret soul, though he is always so
utterly sweet to the poor things. But I am sure Brian Walford has a
tender heart, because he is so fond of kittens.'

'I didn't mean to insinuate that he was a modern Domitian,' answered Ida,
smiling at Bessie's childish earnestness. 'What I mean is that there is
no depth in his nature, no nobility in his character. He is shallow, and,
I fear, selfish. But, Bessie, my pet, I am going to ask you a favour.'

'Ask away,' cried Bessie, cheerfully; 'I can't give you the moon, but
anything which I really do possess is yours this instant.'

'Don't let us ever talk of Brian Walford. I can never get over the
feeling of humiliation which Miss Rylance's practical joke caused me; and
my only chance of forgetting it is to forget your cousin's existence.'

'Oh, but he will come to The Knoll, I hope, at Christmas, and then you
will think better of him.'

'If he should come I--I hope I shall not see him.'

'Has he offended you so deeply?'

'Don't let us talk about him, Bess. Tell me all about your Bournemouth
triumphs. I hear you were the belle of the place.'

'Then you have heard a most egregious fib. There were dozens of girls
with nineteen-inch waists, before whom I felt myself a monster of
dumpiness. But I got on pretty well. I don't pretend to be a good dancer,
but I can generally adapt myself to the badness of other people's steps,
and that goes for something.'

And now having got away from all painful subjects, Bessie rattled on at a
tremendous pace, describing girls and gowns, and partners, and tennis
tournaments, and yachting excursions, all in a breath, as she sat in
front of the fire sipping her tea, and devouring a particular kind of
buttered bun for which Miss Wendover's cook was famous.

'Aunt Betsy's tea is always nicer than any one else's; and so are her
buns and her butter; in fact everything in this house is nicer than it is
anywhere else,' said Bessie, pausing in her reminiscences. 'You are in
clover here, Ida.'

'Thanks to your goodness, Bess.'

'To mine? But I have positively nothing to do with it.'

'Yes, you have. It is from the wish to please her warm-hearted little
niece that Miss Wendover has been so good to me.'

'But if you had been plain or stupid she would have only been kind to you
at a distance. Aunt Betsy has her idiosyncrasies, and one of them is a
liking for beauty in individuals, as well as in chairs and tables and
cups and saucers. You will see that all her servants are pretty. She
picks them for their good looks, I believe, and trains them afterwards.
She would not have so much as a bad-looking stable boy.'

'Hard upon ugliness to be shut out of this paradise,' said Ida.

'Oh, but she finds places for the ugly boys and girls, with people whose
teeth are not so easily set on edge, she says herself. And now I must
be off, to change my frock for dinner. You know the back way to The
Knoll--across the fields to the little door in the kitchen-garden. You
will always come that way, of course. When are you coming to see us?
To-morrow?'

'You forget that my time is not my own. I will come whenever Miss
Wendover can best spare me.'

'Oh, you will have plenty of spare time, I am sure.'

'I hope not too much, or I shall be too sharply reminded that Miss
Wendover has taken me out of charity.'

'Charity fiddlestick! A prize-winner like you! And now good-bye, pet, or
I shall be late for dinner, which offends the Colonel beyond measure.'

Bessie scampered off, Ida following her to the glass door, only in time
to see her running across the lawn as fast as her feet could carry her.
It was characteristic of Bessie to cut everything very fine in the way of
time.

CHAPTER XII.

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

And now began for Ida a life of exceeding peacefulness, comfort,
happiness even; for how could a girl fail to be happy among people who
were so friendly and kind, who so thoroughly respected her, and so warmly
admired her for gifts altogether independent of fortune--who never, by
word or look, reminded her that she was in anywise of less importance
than themselves?

Nor had the girl any cause to fear that she was a useless member of Miss
Wendover's household. That lady found plenty of occupation for her young
companion--varied and pleasant duties, which made the days seem too
short, and the leisure of the long winter evenings an agreeable relief
from the busy hours of daylight.

That exquisite neatness which gave such a charm to Wendover's house was
not attained without labour. The polished surface of the old Chippendale
bureaus, the inlaid Sheraton chairs and tables, could only be maintained
by daily care. A housemaid's perfunctory dusting was not sufficient here;
and Miss Wendover, gloved and aproned, and armed with leathers and
brushes, gave at least half an hour every morning to the care of her old
furniture. Another half hour was devoted to china; and the floral
arrangements indoors, even in this wintry season, occupied half an hour
more. This was all active work, about which Aunt Betsy and Ida went
merrily, talking tremendously as they polished and dusted, and upon all
possible subjects, for Miss Wendover's lonely evenings had enabled her to
read almost as much as Southey, and she delighted in telling Ida the
curious out-of-the-way facts that were stored up in her memory.

Sometimes there was an hour or so given to culinary matters--new dishes,
new kickshaws, _hors d'oeuvres,_ savouries--to be taught the young,
teachable cook-maid; for whenever Miss Wendover went to a great dinner,
her eagle eye was on the alert to discover some modern improvement in the
dishes or the table arrangements.

Then there was gardening, which absorbed a good deal of time in fine
weather; for Aunt Betsy held that no gardener, however honestly inclined,
would long feel interested in a garden to which its owner was
indifferent. Miss Wendover knew every flower that grew--could bud, and
graft, and pot, and prune, and do everything that her youthful gardeners
could do, beside being ever so much more learned in the science of
gardening.

Then there were inspections of piggery and poultry-yard, medicines and
particular foods to be prepared for the poultry, hospitals to be
established and looked after in odd corners of the orchard, and the
propagation of species to be carried on by mechanical contrivances.

On wet days there was art needlework, for which Miss Wendover had what
artists would call a great deal of feeling, without being very skilful as
an executant. Under her direction, Ida began a mauresque border for a
tawny plush curtain which was to be a triumph of art when completed, and
which was full of interest in progress. She worked at this of an evening,
while Miss Wendover, who had a fine full voice, and a perfect
enunciation, read aloud to her. Then, when Miss Wendover was tired, Ida
went to the piano and played for an hour or so, while the elder lady gave
herself up to rare idleness and dreamy thought.

These were home duties only. The two ladies had occupations abroad of a
more exacting nature. Miss Wendover until now had given two botany
lessons, and one physical science lesson, every week in the village
school. The botany lessons she now handed over to Ida, whom she coached
for that purpose. Summer or winter these lessons were always given out of
doors, in the course of an hour's ramble in field, lane, or wood. Then
Miss Wendover had a weekly class for domestic economy, a class attended
by all the most promising girls, from thirteen years old upwards, within
five miles. This class was held in the kitchen or housekeeper's room at
the Homestead; and many were the savoury messes of broth or soup, cheap
stews and meat puddings, and the jellies and custards compounded at these
lessons, to be fleut off next day to the sick poor upon Miss Wendover's
list.

Then there was house to house visiting all over the widely-scattered
parish, much talk with gaffers and goodies, in all of which Ida assisted.
She would have hated the work had Miss Wendover been a person of the
Pardiggle stamp; but as love was the governing principle of all Aunt
Betsy's work, her presence was welcome as sunshine or balmy air; so
welcome that her sharpest lectures (and she could lecture when there was
need) were received with meekness and even gratitude. In these visits Ida
learned to know a great deal about the ways and manners of the
agricultural poor, all the weakness and all the nobility of the rural
nature.

Every Saturday or half-holiday at the village school--blessed respite
which gave the hard-worked mistress time to mend her clothes, and make
herself bright and trim for Sunday, and opened for the master brilliant
possibilities in the way of a jaunt to Bomsey or Winchester--Miss
Wendover gave a dinner to all the school children under twelve. She had
taken up Victor Hugo's theory that a substantial meat dinner, even on one
day out of seven, will do much to build up the youthful constitution and
to prevent scrofulous diseases. Moved by these considerations, she had
fitted up a disused barn as a rustic dining-hall, the walls plastered and
whitewashed, or buff-washed, the massive cross timbers painted a dark
red, a long deal table and a few forms the only furniture. Here every
Saturday, at half-past one o'clock, she provided a savoury meat dinner;
and very strong must be that temptation or that necessity which would
induce Aunt Betsy to abandon her duties as hostess at this weekly feast.
It was she who said grace before and after meat--save when some suckling
parson was admitted to the meal; it was she who surveyed and improved the
manners of her guests by sarcastic hints or friendly admonitions; and it
was she who furnished intellectual entertainment in the shape of
anecdote, historical story, or excruciating conundrum.

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